For Dean
by The Vervain Faery
Summary: Seamus searches for Dean.


**Disclaimer: **I am, of course, JKR! Yup Yup. shifty eyes

Your footsteps are soft on the dewy grass, but still the sound rings out in the chilled air. You see others doing the same in the darkening evening light, carefully side-stepping the remains that litter the ground, all hoping to catch a glimpse of some minuscule familiar part. Anything at all to let you all know they're really gone.

You won't believe he's gone… that they're all gone… until you see it. Not until the parts are spread before you, a bit of skin with a ragged lightening bolt, a clump of frizzy brown hair, some limb covered in familiar constellations of freckles… dark dark skin on limbs much too long to be anyone else.

You haven't seen anything like that, but then again, everyone has been on the lookout for the first three… anything to find the Heroes.

Not that Dean wasn't a hero; he was _your_ hero. But the others seem to think other people are more important, and so, as you walk the field in the dark, your wand pushed in front of you, the beams of light shining on such a small slice of ground, you look for him above the others.

You don't want to believe it, and if you can't find your proof, you may never accept it. You realise he hasn't shown up at your shared apartment since the final battle, but he could still be out there, laying somewhere hidden, not knowing the battle is finally over, hurt and alone. And so you comb the field like so many others, not even leaving to sleep.

You wonder what will happen when you find him, well and truly alive, for that's the only way Dean _can_ be. He'll smile and laugh at you for worrying, his dark lips curving beautifully. His voice is soft as always when he draws you in, his arms fitting so perfectly around your waist, your bodies locking together like old puzzle pieces. He nuzzles the top of your head, moving dirty hair around but not seeming to mind the least.

You reach out to wrap your arms around him only to find your arms full of air. Your eyes open to see the field, still littered with the dead, preservation charms finally failing enough for the decay to start setting into the bodies.

You sigh and nudge a few broken arms out of you way and continue on.

The sun rises much earlier than you think it should and you blink at the surrounding daylight. The others had left for the night, but now they all trickle back onto the field, shuffling quietly through the death and rot.

Your eyes have been focused on the ground for so long, you forget there is more to the world than dried blood, brown grass, white bones broken through flesh. But still, you don't look up, waiting to comb over every festering soul until there are none left. Because unless you find him, he'll always haunt you, wondering why you didn't look hard enough for him.

Sometimes, you wonder how you can make it through the day without his arms around you. It's sobering to realise you haven't felt his flesh pressed hotly against yours in over a week.

You shiver, but don't tighten the cloak around you, let the ends flap in the cold breeze, sending gusts of wind through your clothing.

The ground is swimming before you when you feel tentative hands on your arm, so different from Dean's confident grasp that you almost don't look up at all. But you do to see mousy hair and blue eyes looking at you with pity.

"Seamus," he says.

But you're shaking your head; you don't want to hear it now… not again. Not from Neville who didn't lose his Ernie. You just want to keep your eyes open long enough to see that you were right, that Dean hadn't fallen like the others insist.

But Neville doesn't allow you to pretend that he hadn't been there; he steps before you and tilts your head up.

"You've been out here for days."

You have been. But others have too, trodding the same ground over and over until it's just slush made of ice and blood and old shoe polish.

You don't say anything, just look around you, looking at the ground you've already covered, hoping against hope it's still bare of such dark dark skin.

"This isn't healthy." Neville's voice is soft, but not as soft as Dean's always is, you can't help but notice. "You're going to catch your death."

You shrug. As long as you see Dean before the end, you'll be fine. You know he's out there somewhere, waiting for you to find him where he can smile and swipe his tongue along your lips and clink his teeth against yours in that way you know always thrills him. Your own health doesn't matter. It never really has.

Neville pulls against your arm, but you push back, watching as he stumbles away, tripping over snapped arms and fallen wands. He blinks up at you.

You look away, eyes on the ground again, stretching over stubbled grass. You almost miss when Neville speaks.

"We… want to show you something," he says as he picks himself up, not bothering to try and wipe the mud away.

That's when you notice that you're alone on the field. The other have moved away, gone home and given up. Maybe the Ministry would be providing a cleaning crew after all.

Your eyes meet Neville's and before you allow him to lead you off, you mark the ground with a large stake, pushed deep in the ground so the wind won't knock it over. After all, you wouldn't want to lose your place in your search.

He leads you around bodies, twisting and turning through the wreckage in a seemingly random path, but Neville has never led you wrong before, so you trust him.

There's a small crowd gathered and Neville breaks through the rings of people, pulling you behind him, his fingers tight on your arm still.

"There," he says, and you look around his pudgy form to see that dark dark skin you've been trying not to see for days, laying broken on the ground, beside the skin with a ragged lightening bolt, a clump of frizzy brown hair, several dozen limbs covered in familiar constellations of freckles...

You just stand there, staring down, because what's there left to do? The future you imagined is gone and you don't know what to be if it isn't for Dean.


End file.
